About the site: This blog started as a place to house poems, favorites and original poems. Towards the end of ModPo 1, I added a blogroll of blogs showcasing poetic works by ModPo students and friends. Now, at the end of ModPo 2, we continue this tradition. We hope it provides a useful place for repose, reflection and reading. Hope you enjoy your visit here and look forward to seeing you again. New poems, links and blogs are constantly being added and updated.

Monday, December 30, 2013

new books arrived in the laundry room(my wife lets me do laundry more often since I retired)German novels, African American history,Native American languages, British plays -I thumb through all the new additions,while the whites wash and the colors dry. An eclectic collection, well kept (I can tell) andcarefully read by a conscientious reader,perhaps a tenant, now departed, her booksabandoned, left behind to testifyon her (or his) behalf. And laundererslike me now benefit from such largesse.I thumb through them all,and wonder will my volumes end up here.

Tuesday, December 24, 2013

Still and AllStill and all, if you ask in that way, I might reply – “peace.”Although the wind would likely disagree and would bePressed to bring the gushing creek to share the thoughtAmong our loose wrapped memories are few With ribbons tied -- No disappointment showingThe fireplace chafes at Keeping all that pent up sun between the blackened dogsAnd calmly turning twisted pine unto sootSomething’s wild and vengefulIn your eyes – something like to hate that Shakes the earth and strips the forest bareTornados, hurricanes, wars and derision, Let these come Christmas Eve. We’ll find some virtue in combatting Joy in gritting our bared gnashing teethIt’s when becalmed our canyons start to gapeOur wolves are still, I Know my insides come unzipped It’s then I cannot stand or understand The shepherd or the sheep But longing (though I wish it weren’t so) And thoroughly betrayed by -- Love.

Wednesday, November 20, 2013

after reading the first poem
my head went numb–
have I answered your question?
how do I get started?
a quick rough sketch, warts and all
I think you’re going to enjoy THIS–
when they were good they were incredible.

Most of us don’t sleep,
I’m pretty sure Al doesn’t.

Most of these poets would have been sent
to the Ministry of Love and vaporized,
bourgeois decadence–
degenerate art–
making sense is overrated.

What do you make of her use of windows and doors?
What else could she have meant by Paradise?
I hadn’t the slightest idea.
You’re only disqualified from the group
if you forget your towel. Don’t panic.

How would one avoid the “splinter”
that shunts the brain out of its groove?

What do you see?
Isn’t any creative work bullshit
if you look at it in a certain way?

What I assume you shall assume–
she leads her alien invasion
as Williams dances like a lunatic
and Kathleen and the baby sleeps downstairs.

I’m not a lit guy, so I don’t know.
It’s always a conversation between you and the poet
Experiment, see what works for you.

Let’s go dance in front of the mirror
but make sure you have at least
one post per week
in the poem-specific subforums.

Goodbye but not farewell.
We will continue our conversations
and social media chats –
with new friends,
with old friends.

And we will continue writing poems:
together in small groups,
and at home, alone,
in the midnight hour that is not
midnight, but that
floats between isha and fajr -
the darkest part of night -
when passions die,
and distractions fall to the side.

The songwriting teacher said all I needed
was a thesaurus and a rhyming dictionary –
but it hasn’t proven sufficient –

and there are no final words, anyway,
no bridge, no chorus, no refrain,
just a tight hug, a soft sigh, a tender kiss,
and a throw-away “see-you-tomorrow,”
maybe, if you’re lucky. And all my
countrymen are poets, and sailors.

No, goodbye is not farewell.
There is SloPo on Facebook,
and sudden spoon is resurrecting,
and the Breakfast Club opera is on track,
and KWH is always open,
and there are Sunday get-togethers in DC
whenever you are passing through.

And all our blogs and our websites are up,
and NaPoWriMo comes in April,
and Postcard Poetry Fest comes in August,
and before you know it, ModPo14!

Modern & Contemporary American Poetry
MODPO MODPOPENN MODPOLIVE
MODPOPENPOLIVE
Modern
Anti Modern
Green glass
Spreading
We are the grass
Mending the Wall
Cut up into pieces
and scattered on the floor
on the Page
In my hand
13 Ways to connect with Toronto, Ecuador, Hawaii, Sydney,
Israel, San Fran, South Carolina, Connecticut, Philadelphia-
Etc
etc etc etc etc Etc etc
MODPOPENNPO
In wild room dancing to 12 tones
and in this moment
this is the moment

THIS
is
the Poem...

To lift Kelly's cup
and sip together-to another year of
Dwelling

And Let the Splinter
Swerve

From the beautiful mountains of North Carolina,
Love and Many Blessings,
I'll see you in the forums
and again next year. Until we re-open the present....

Wednesday, November 13, 2013

And I die
The Giants I hold up the umbrella
of misbehaviour
and turn the square axle
my dark sky
clouds and storms that befit me
savory nights
the regalia of my Opera
where no glittered stars.
So wild a den I
to complain in my hair disease incurable.
My syllables in its leghold trap.
Here's the Hunter
It was spring, a day!

Saturday, October 12, 2013

Rainy Night in Foggy BottomWhen it rains all night in Foggy Bottomyou can smell the swamp beneath us - the old rotted tree roots, the tadpoles,the water moccasins skimming - The swamp is only ever ten feet away –and all that separates us is asphalt,and gas and water pipes,and underground telephone lines.It’s pitch black down there –dark from lack of light,black as a night without stars –even the water is black.The level of the swamp risesas our own level imperceptibly falls,both at an accelerating rate –soon we will be together.

Monday, September 30, 2013

Rich, flashy, puffy-faced,
Hebrew and Anglo-Saxon,
The overlords sprawl here with their glittering darlings.
The smoke curls thick, in the dimmed light
Surreptitiously, deaf-mute waiters
Flatter the grandees,
Going easily over the rich carpets,
Wary lest they kick over the bottles
Under the tables.

The jazzband unleashes its frenzy.

Now, now,
To it, Roger; that's a nice doggie,
Show your tricks to the gentlemen.

The trombone belches, and the saxophone
Wails curdlingly, the cymbals clash,
The drummer twitches in an epileptic fit

Muddy water
Round my feet
Muddy water

The chorus sways in.
The 'Creole Beauties from New Orleans'
(By way of Atlanta, Louisville, Washington, Yonkers,
With stop-overs they've used nearly all their lives)
Their creamy skin flushing rose warm,
O, le bal des belles quarterounes! *
Their shapely bodies naked save
For tattered pink silk bodices, short velvet tights,
And shining silver-buckled boots;
Red bandannas on their sleek and close-clipped hair;
To bring to mind (aided by the bottles under the tables)
Life upon the river--

Muddy water, river sweet

(Lafitte the pirate, instead,
And his doughty diggers of gold)

There's peace and happiness there
I declare

(In Arkansas,
Poor half-naked fools, tagged with identification numbers,
Worn out upon the levees,
Are carted back to the serfdom
They had never left before
And may never leave again)

my swing is more mellow
these days: not the hardbop drive
i used to roll but more of a cool
foxtrot. my eyes still close
when the rhythm locks; i’ve learned
to boogie with my feet on the floor
i’m still movin’, still groovin’
still fallin’ in love

i bop to the bass line now. the trap set
paradiddles ratamacues & flams
that used to spin me in place still set me
off, but i bop to the bass line now
i enter the tune from the bottom up
& let trumpet & sax wheel above me

so don’t look for me in the treble
don’t look for me in the fly
staccato splatter of the hot young horn
no, you’ll find me in the nuance
hanging out in inflection & slur
i’m the one executing the half-bent
dip in the slow slowdrag
with the smug little smile
& the really cool shades

Sunday, July 21, 2013

A poem about my great great grandfather, from things my father told me. Of course, my father was only six when his great grandfather died. And my father passed away over 30 years ago. It all leaves much to the imagination to recreate (i.e., he probably made shit up, and I am probably making some shit up too!).

Grandpap Rankin

First of all, thank you for visiting the cemetery
every now and then, and cleaning the graves

of the old folks. New generations have forgotten,
but they wouldn’t be, now, if we had not been then –

When I was barely a boy, I run off with rebel soldiers,
did odd jobs, cooked for them, tended to the horses.

None of us farmers knew that much about war.
Legend is true, I returned to Browns Summit with a box full

of Confederate money. Warn’t no count, no way.
Rebel soldiers give it to me. I swear. It was my pay.

Buried that box in a tobacco field in Jackson after the war,
same field where I buried mason jars of moonshine I made,

to keep it cool and to hide it from the revenuers.
Cool on a summer day. Best in Guilford County,

the white folks used to say. The war freed the slaves, or
so they said. I didn’t know much about politics, still don't,

or taking sides, or fighting, but I did know we had a good master,
a kind, Christian man. Now your daddy and his sister were just children

when I transferred to the next world. But I watched them grow up and
tried to take care of them, best I could. It ain’t easy

moving back and forth between worlds. And yes, I made
a bit of moonshine in my day. Drank a little, too,

more towards the end. Best in Guilford County.
Hid it from the revenuers. Cool on a hot summer day.

Tuesday, July 16, 2013

I did a close read of Rachel Jeantel's remarks last night
and I found her words to be, actually, quite profound.

"The Jury,

they old.

That's old school people.

(not a jury of Zimmerman's peers, and especially not a jury
of Martin's peers and he is the one who is actually on trial here. The jury
members have an old, antiquated way of thinking that defies logic or reason, an
old, defective school of ignorance and division and false attribution)

We in a new school.

Our generation."

(there is a marked generational divide that has nothing to
do with old divisions like race, gender, national origin, or even educational
level. The new school is the one that will solve the problems of the old
because the old school has run out of ideas. The new generation has solutions,
and if we allow them, they will save us as well.)

In the middle
of the concrete heat
boys manning our
sneakered positions tarred
in the block’s summer field
We hustled out
fates into shape
on the city’s sweating face
in the lean, bouncing grace
of our broomstick, rubber ball game
bound by the sewers and parked cars
of our Outlaw Little League
While on the sidelines
dreaming in our cheers
the old men watched
bleachered on brownstone stoops
and iron fire escapes
making small book on the shadowy
skills of stickball stars
lost in the late-inning sun
of the stadiumed street’s
priceless, makeshift diamond

Thursday, July 4, 2013

The words of Frederick Douglass' speech of July 4, 1852 resonate with us today, and with today's American slaves and trafficked human beings:

"What, to the American slave, is your 4th of July? I answer; a day that reveals to him, more than all other days in the year, the gross injustice and cruelty to which he is the constant victim. To him, your celebration is a sham; your boasted liberty, an unholy license; your national greatness, swelling vanity; your sound of rejoicing are empty and heartless; your denunciation of tyrants brass fronted impudence; your shout of liberty and equality, hollow mockery; your prayers and hymns, your sermons and thanks-givings, with all your religious parade and solemnity, are to him, mere bombast, fraud, deception, impiety, and hypocrisy -- a thin veil to cover up crimes which would disgrace a nation of savages. There is not a nation on the earth guilty of practices more shocking and bloody than are the people of the United States, at this very hour."

Sunday, June 30, 2013

If blood will flow when
flesh and steel are one,
drying in the colour of the evening sun -
tomorrow's rain will
wash the stains away,
but something in our minds will always stay --
Perhaps this final act was meant
to clinch a lifetime's argument,
that nothing comes from violence
and nothing ever could -
for all those born beneath an angry star
lest we forget how fragile we are --
On and on the rain will fall like tears from a star,
On and on the rain will say how fragile we are.

Saturday, June 29, 2013

Let those who are in favour with their stars Of public honour and proud titles boast, Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars, Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most. Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread But as the marigold at the sun's eye, And in themselves their pride lies buried,For at a frown they in their glory die. The painful warrior famoused for fight, After a thousand victories once foil'd, Is from the book of honour razed quite, And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd: Then happy I, that love and am beloved Where I may not remove nor be removed.

Friday, June 21, 2013

I make my morning walk today,it is the summer solstice, after all –the first morning of summer,the longest day, the shortest night –But what good is that, I ask –a short night is not worth a plug nickel (to use my father’s vernacular) –we love the night,we make love at night,sweet love we hope will never end,an endless night of love –we dream pure dreams at night, and pray those dreams come true –we plot and strategize our plan of attack in the wee hours, at the midnight hour, at night. Of what value, then,is a short night? Crossing the bridge, I shift my timepiece from 88five to 103five,“traffic and weather together, on the eights,”and the neurons start to firein rapid succession…the tide is high – portions of the shore normally exposedare submerged. I pause and watchas the crawling critters flee the flood and seek refuge on higher ground,inching closer and closer to the human walking trail –I see tall stalks of phytolacca americanagrowing in grovesalong the shore, sprouting long green leaves,greens my ancestors used to eat, thrice-boiled,as they headed northto escape an immoral oppression. “It’s poison if you don’t cook it right…”I can hear them whisper through the rush of the running tide…my baby sister is writing poetry again, mostly in her letters.I think about her as I turn the corneronto Frances Scott Key Bridge. She is the better poet,she has the gift, the power to apaziguar o dor –that’s what friends are for.I’m nearing home, my walk almost done.The longest day of the yearopens its arms before me.“From the Shenandoah to the Chesapeake,”WTOP says on the radio --all day long.